


Phantom

by egoat



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 07:33:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12700293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egoat/pseuds/egoat
Summary: Non-fanfiction. Luke has a problem with memories.





	Phantom

 

I remember long phone conversations I’ve had with my father. I listened patiently while he painted me scenes from my childhood I don’t remember. Long stories, words carefully chose, with a ferocious attention toward detail, told with an almost reverent tone to them. He must have put great value in those memories–clung to them. I listened on the phone, wondering if I wish I remembered them or not.

One of my most vivid memories nowadays was stumbling from my home down a few blocks to my friend’s house. I had just gotten off a plane, from touring colleges on the West Coast, and taken a taxi back home to Sequoia. As soon as I turned my phone off, I was invited to this reunion.

It was the last few weeks of summer, before my senior year of high school. Dusk had already sent in as I wandered through the streets, with the sounds of childhood in the distance.

I walked into the room, a bit apprehensive, and found the parents of people I hadn’t talked to in years lining the walls. The room was as dark as the night outside–in the center, a screen projector was playing a slideshow of old photographs.

Pleasant conversation and laughter filled the air. I asked around and was directed downstairs. My friends from elementary school were gathered there. June and Paul were there. Lake was there. Gregg, who invited me here, was there, next to her. He waved me in.

When I got the text, I was a bit surprised. I had wondered if Gregg and I were even on speaking terms. I thought, naïvely, that he must have felt that some bond of friendship still connected us despite everything. He must have just pitied me.

Through mainly word-association, together they were retrieving memories from childhood and joyfully sharing them as quickly as they could. Another would latch onto the topic in sudden, joyous agreement. Playing apples-to-apples. Soccer. Freeze-tag. The earliest rumors of romance.

I was eager to join in, trying to find my place in the web of time. The truth that I didn’t want to be acknowledged was that I spent most of my childhood far removed from the place where memories were formed. I know the basics of how my time were spent–walking endlessly in circles around the playground by myself, reading books, sitting around, crying spontaneously.

Of course, that was not the whole truth. I had plenty of time I earnestly spent as a member of this common group of friends–I told a story about the time I scammed a kid two grades below me out of a Pokemon card by telling him I’d be his friend, to the remembering laughter of a few.

Honestly, I struggle to remember any of the details of the stories that night. But I remember the atmosphere, the cooling summer night, the air. And the feeling of great anticipation, and of great nostalgia.

I thought then, wasn’t I truly happy back then, in early childhood? Even with all the loneliness, I was so unconcerned with being happy that I genuinely had happiness. I had freedom.

And I would think later, during my senior year, back to that night of remembrance, wasn’t that night the last time I was happy? Surrounded by friends, warm, with an excitement for the uncertain?

To be honest, I might have been right either time.

 

There’s a cafe not far from my house that I started hanging out in shortly after I got laid off. I soon had the idea to invite my therapist there for our sessions. This served the dual purpose of removing my anxiety about entering the hospital every day, and possibly convincing the waitress who worked at the cafe that I wasn’t entirely a loner.

Somehow, during our conversation, we got side-tracked. I posed him a question, but I don’t remember why. “Do you believe in reincarnation,” is what I asked him.

“No. Do you?” he responded, poised to write down my answer.

“Of course I do,” I said. “The soul is too valuable to waste. The only reasonable explanation for the world is that death releases a soul from its body, strips it of the burden of memory, and gives it a new body to control.”

He looked concerned. “You think if you die, you’ll become something else?”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant…”

We reached an impasse. He then asked me, “What did you mean by ‘the burden of memory’?”

“The more memories you build up in your lifetime, the more disappointing everything becomes afterward. Whatever happens next to you, you can only compare to the best and brightest moments of your past.”

He seemed interested in what I was saying, for once, though I was really just making it up. I kept going,

“The way our lives are structured,” I said, “All the happiness occurs in our earliest stage of life. In childhood, everyone is carefree, there are no responsibilities, you can be surrounded with friends, you always know your place in the world.”

“The good memories that are forged then,” I tried to explain, “How can anything compare?”

“That’s,” he responded, after some time, “an interesting perspective. I see why you would feel that way.”

“Thanks, doc.”

“But what about the happy memories you forge after childhood? Starting a family, maybe, or, getting a promotion, traveling, seeing the world? Hell, sex, drugs?”

“I don’t know.” I looked down into my cappuccino.

“I’m just trying to say,” he said, “There’s opportunities for you to be happy in the future, or in the present, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, though I didn’t really agree.

“What were you saying about the afterlife, again?”

“I don’t know. Forget I mentioned it.”

 

There’s one memory in particular I can’t stop seem to reliving, over and over again. It doesn’t matter if I’m dreaming, awake, high.

I was six years old. It was recess, and I was sitting by the lunch tables, with some kind of picture book a teacher had loaned me.

Another kid walked up to me, his name I don’t even remember.

He said, “What are you doing by yourself, loser?”

I ignored him, but he kept bugging me. “What are you doing?”

“I’m reading,” I said.

He pushed me off the bench I was sitting on. I fell, sprawled out on the ground.

“Fuck you,” he said. I had never even heard those words before, I didn’t know what they meant.

I stayed there, looking up at him. He was a little older than me, heavier, a weird look on his face. Had a blue sweater on. It was December.

“Get up,” he demanded. I stayed.

“I said get up!” He kicked me in the knee. It stung. I still didn’t get up.

I remember not even being upset. I must have been afraid, of course, but I wasn’t sad or crying.

Anyway, that was when Lake came along. She rushed in and got into a fight with the blue-sweltered kid immediately. I could hear her telling him to get off me.

After she punched him in the face, he ran away. Lake leaned down to where I was lying and asked me if I was okay.

“If he ever sees you again, I’ll protect you, okay?” she said to me.

She helped me get off the ground and sat by me for the rest of recess.

When I told that memory to my therapist, he had two questions. The first wasn’t really even a question; he said, “Would you say that that was the first time you experienced love, outside of your mother and father?”

I nodded in agreement. I didn’t even ask if he meant that I loved Lake or if Lake loved me, but I guess it didn’t matter.

The second question came later on, after I had forgotten I told him that memory. He asked me, “Luke, is everything you’ve been telling me true?”

“Huh? Of course.”

“It’s just, some of these memories you’ve been telling me about. They sound almost fictional. They’re too good to be true.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not totally out of the question that your brain may be confusing some of your own memories, or simplifying them. Or, you might have imagined something in a dream that you’re now registering as a real memory.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I believe everything I’ve told you.”

“Luke, I’m not trying to say I don’t believe you. But memory loss, confusion, a slipping sense of reality are all common with your condition. Confusing a memory, especially one from early childhood, with maybe something you read in a book or saw in a movie wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen. It happens to people all the time, really.”

I didn’t really believe him.

“It’s just,” he continued, “These memories–especially the ones with Lake, and later on, Gregg–make them seem almost saintly. These are pastorals. It could be the way you’re telling them, or maybe ‘re-living’ them so often has changed your perception of them.”

“That could be true,” I supposed.

“It’s something to think about. Just… try to open your mind to more complex interpretations of what you remember. Maybe question some of the things your mind is showing you. That would be a good thing to start with next time, maybe?”

“Sure.”

 

I was certain about that memory of meeting Lake, of course; there was no doubt in my mind that was exactly how it happened. It defined our whole friendship–it defined my whole life. I eagerly followed Lake from then on throughout elementary and into middle school, basically letting her protect me. We had practically nothing in common as children–she was mean, rebellious, tough, loud, nearly always got in trouble. I was shy, soft-spoken, and spent most of my time trying to make my teachers happy. At some point, I started doing Lake’s homework for her, and helping her study for tests and quizzes. She paid me back by continuing to protect me from bullies and letting me eat some of her lunch. It was a mutually beneficial contract.

As time went on, we started having more in common, probably by virtue of spending time together. We listened to the same music, a collection of tapes and vinyls from each of our parent’s homes. I played Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings for her–she played me Sonny & Cher, the Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan. Were it not for Lake’s inherent toughness and coolness, this would surely have ruined our social prospects in high school and branded us forever as townies.

While we practically lived together throughout middle school, we began to grow apart in high school, when she got a job helping out at some bar after school. Without her, I just sort of continued to hang around the general group of friends she had already surrounded herself with. 

This happened to consist of the most “punk” kids in Sequoia, New Jersey. There was Gregg, Jerry, Paul Walker, Herod (our only foreign member–he was Greek or something. Eventually we all started calling him “Hero”), and the only female member, June. Gregg and Paul Walker were the only ones cool enough to actually be in a band. They met up every week in Gregg’s dad’s garage with some older kids from out of town to practice their craft. I don’t quite remember their arrangement, but I remember it being strange–Paul Walker wrote the lyrics, but Gregg was the lead singer, so I think Paul must have also played drums or bass or something.

I was a little embarrassed to be around them at first–I had none of the toughness or coolness of Lake, and without her there to protect me I was just a bookish loser hanger-on without a paddle. Paul looked after me pretty quickly; he liked that I carried around paperbacks of Shakespeare sometimes. He must have felt that that connected us in some way since he was an aspiring poet–he would quickly learn that I had almost no artistic aspirations and be disappointed. June also looked after me since we had Lake in common.

In my freshman year, June once ambushed me leaving class and asked me to come to a café with her. I found this entirely intimidating–not only was she way cooler than I was, but I barely knew how to talk to anyone on my own, not even Lake. Trying to keep an attractive punk girl entertained on my own would be a brutal test of my limited social abilities. Still, I didn’t want to say no, so after school she dragged me with her into downtown Sequoia.

She started asking me various questions about myself on the way.

“So, how did you and Lake meet?” she said in an arch tone, possibly imitating a character from Grease.

“We’ve been friends since elementary school.”

“Oh, yeah, right. I heard she had to beat some guy off of you.”

A little embarrassed, I smiled. “Yeah, she did.”

“Aww, that’s so cute. She’s like your knight in shining armor.”

June was easily the most committed to punk fashion out of any of us–possibly because for girls, there _was_ a punk fashion beyond tank tops and the occasional piercing. Her hair was dyed in alternating strands of bright green and blue, which she usually wore in pigtails. She was two years above me, and significantly taller. She always wore some kind of torn-up stockings or fishnets, and Doc Martens. Her shirts advertised some underground band or anime, which none of us knew anything about. 

Now that I think about it, the fact that she often read manga probably should have given it away to me that she was a weeb. Her hair was probably based off some anime character as well. Then again, I must have had no idea what that was at the time, and neither did anyone else in Sequoia.

“How did you meet Lake?” I asked her back.

“We were in camp together. We’re both going back as counselors this summer.”

“What camp?”

“I dunno, it’s just ‘camp’, man. We were bunkmates, so we would stay up all night braiding each other’s hair and stuff. It was very, like, ‘The Parent Trap’.”

“What?”

“You know, Lindsey Lohan, two twins meet at summer camp.”

“I don’t have a TV.”

“Well,” she said, frustrated, “it was like that.”

“How have your classes been going?” she asked out of the blue.

“They’re, um, good.”

“Yeah, you’re like a super genius, right? You’re already in Calculus or something?”

“I’m in Pre-Cal. Not a genius,” I corrected her.

“Hey, that’s just what I heard. You like, got As on everything in middle school, right?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Wow. Well, don’t burn out here,” she warned me, “Most kids who are in like GATE or whatever get to their sophomore year and they’re just like, ‘fuck it, I’m done’ and start tanking their classes and shit. They either figure out how to get Cs and just kick it or drop out.”

I was surprised to hear this at the time, though I would soon hear it a million times from a number of people.

“You don’t seem like that kind of kid, though. Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you. You’ll do great,” June beamed.

Of course, I was exactly that kind of kid, though I didn’t know it yet.

June had managed to drag me all the way to this cafe without me noticing. Entering, I could immediately see why she liked the place. It was brown, and dirty as hell. Stickers, graffiti, and overlapping posters for local concerts lined the walls. A suitcase turntable in the back was playing French jazz of some kind. The place was mostly full of artsy college students, and a few aging writers in between them. It was, assertively, a cool hangout.

June dragged me by the wrist to the counter, where I looked around in vain for a menu that wasn’t there. She laughed at me.

“There’s no menu,” she said. “The owner’s a total dick.”

Someone came out of the backroom to help us.

“One coffee for here. What do you want, Luke?”

“Uhh,” I remember saying, “I’ve never really had coffee before.”

She smiled. “Get him a cappuccino.”

The employee, without speaking and with a dead look in their eyes, took June’s money and began preparing our drinks.

June pointed to a table, and I followed her and we both sat down.

“So,” she leaned forward, “What do you think?”

“This is exactly the kind of place where I imagine you must spend all your time.”

She laughed. “I’m glad you think I’m so hip. Paul Walker discovered this place–it’s where all the college kids go. Isn’t it great?”

“It’s cool,” I agreed. “What is it even called?”

“Marvin’s. Marvin is actually here in the mornings. He’ll make you eggs if he’s in the right mood.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, everyone who works here is an alcoholic or some other kind of addict,” June said gleefully.

We both looked over to the counter, where our server was just finishing making my cappuccino. As soon as he did, he put it on the front of the counter next to June’s black coffee, and sat down in a folding chair next to the register and stared blankly ahead of him. He looked like he had just passed out.

“Isn’t it amazing?” June said. She got up and brought our drinks to the table. 

“There’s concerts here every Friday night,” she said. “This is the only place that Gregg’s band has ever played at.”

“Oh, really? I’ve never even heard them. How are they?”

“Oh my god, they’re so terrible!”

We both laughed.

“They’re so cute though. Gregg acts super cool whenever he’s onstage. He totally wants everyone to fall in love with him. And Paul’s lyrics are like, adorable. They’re not even that bad, honestly.”

“Paul’s never shown me his poetry,” I added.

“If he did that, it would probably be only because he wanted to bone you.”

“Oh.”

“Not that he does want to bone you. Or doesn’t. I mean, would you fuck him?”

“Probably not?”

“No offense, either way,” June said quickly. “I mean, I’m not going to judge whatever you’re into.”

I was surprised. “It’s okay,” I said.

“I mean, you do seem kind of twink-y, so you’d be just his type.”

“Twinkly?”

June suppressed a laugh. “Nevermind.” She had gotten out a composition notebook, and started doodling. She was drawing a rose.

“So if you’re not gay,” she said, “then maybe… you like Lake?”

“Oh!” I froze.

June giggled. “Hey, I don’t mean to pry. Just curious.”

“Um,” I got up. “I have to…use the bathroom?”

“It’s past the counter. Just open the door to the kitchen and hang a right.”

I nervously followed her directions as quickly as I could. I eyed the barista from earlier as I passed him. His eyes were glazed over. I don’t think he even noticed me pass into the kitchen.

I made my way to the bathroom, locked the door behind me, and started hyperventilating. What was wrong with me?

(Anxiety, of course, but I didn’t know that then.)

I washed my face, and then curled up on the floor and tried to breath. Sitting directly down on that floor was probably one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had, in retrospect.

After I had calmed down at least a little, I washed my hands and came back to the table.

“You okay?” June said, “You were gone for a while.”

“Yeah, was just… shit. Shitting.” I eyed June’s notebook. She had doodled a big heart with an arrow through it and written in cursive on it, “L & L.”

“Peeking?” she said, noticing me notice it.

“I…yeah, why?”

“It’s ‘Luke & Lake’. If you guys get married, you can put this on the wedding invites.”

I put my hand over my forehead and closed my eyes.

“Aw, hey, I’m just teasing,” June said. “If you want, I can erase it.”

I sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s fine.”

“I didn’t realize you were so sensitive. It’s pretty cute, actually, watching you get all blushy over her,” June smiled.

“I didn’t know it was that obvious.”

“Aww,” June said, touching my shoulder. “It’s okay buddy. I was in the same boat once too, believe me.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, when I first met Lake, I had an unbelievable crush on her. She was like… my lesbian awakening.”

“Oh, wow. I didn’t know…”

“Hey, it’s all good though. No jealousy here. You’re clear to, you know, ram on through.”

“‘Ram on through?’”

“It’s my blessing!” She kept doodling. “Hey, maybe ‘Lake’ stands for ‘lesbian awakening’. L…period… A…”

After we overcame that hurdle, or, more accurately, after June overcame it for me, we started hanging out more and more at that cafe together. Every now and then, Paul Walker, Hero, Jerry, or Gregg would come along, and it soon became the regular hangout for the group in general. I got to know each of them more closely by meeting them in that cafe with just me and June.

Paul Walker didn’t ever openly discuss being gay in the larger group, but when he was just with June and I, it became so apparent that I wondered how I had never noticed it previously. He admitted to having a crush on me early on before realizing that I “wasn’t actually all that interesting”, which made June and Lake both laugh for weeks. June said, “I’ve never heard Luke described so perfectly.”

He was closeted at home, and the only ones who knew at school were his English teacher, Lake, June, me, and Gregg. “It’s easier this way,” he said, though June pushed him on the issue frequently.

Paul Walker, I learned, in addition to being a poet and a lyricist, was a violin-player in the school’s orchestra (which I didn’t even know existed) as well as a supporting actor in the school’s theater program (again, I assume, a secret program). He seemed to genuinely love all of these things. 

“Paul Walker is a genuine renaissance man,” June explained to me once while Paul was in our company, “The fact that such an elegant, homosexual gentleman of the arts could rise out of this Gomorroah of PBR and…PBR lends validity to the phrase, ‘even a rose can grow in darkness’.” Paul clapped when June finished, and June took a standing bow in the cafe. “Can I introduce you on stage like that?” she asked excitedly, sitting back down. “God no,” Paul replied.

Hanging out with Hero at the cafe unfortunately didn’t reveal any hidden depths to his character. He was a simple man, with simple needs. He loved three things in this world; skating, weed, and his girlfriend at the time, Stacy. The one time we invited him to the cafe alone, he ordered a hot chocolate–which was made for him scornfully by a hungover staffer–and left early, presumably to indulge in one of his three aforementioned hobbies.

“If you ever want to see something funny,” June suggested, “we could follow Hero to the skate park and watch him fall off a board for forty-five minutes.”

“We have a skate park?”

“It’s a swimming pool in Mike Berg’s backyard that they empty during the winter. Hero used to hop the fence to get to it but now they just let him in and leave the tarp off for him.”

The time we invited Gregg was the weirdest. He ordered a black coffee, let it sit still until it was completely cold, and drank it.

June interrogated him as soon as he sat down. “So, Gregg, how’s the band going?”

“Good.”

“You playing any gigs?”

“No.”

“Working on any songs?”

“Sort of.”

“What does sort of mean?”

“Everyone’s busy right now. Paul comes over every now and then to run lyrics by me.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” June said, making a jerk-off motion in my direction.

“Our relationship is strictly artistic,” he said, stone-faced.

“Do you ever make him pose for you?”

“Don’t be stupid, June.”

“Are you his muse?”

He paused. “Maybe,” he said, and sipped his cold coffee.

“Really?”

“Paul doesn’t feel comfortable on stage, so I give his words a voice.”

“Like the Lorax.”

“Huh?”

“You speak for the trees.”

“Yeah.”

Gregg was clearly the coolest guy I’ve ever met. Any major dude will tell you that a guy who drinks cold black coffee and won’t change the pitch of his voice is a cool guy. Also, he either looked very tired all the time or was wearing eyeshadow.

Impromptu of nothing, he took June’s doodle journal and began sketching in it. When he put it back down on the table, there was a beautifully rendered nude woman on it.

“Dude!” June yelled when she got back from the bathroom. “Why’d you gotta perv all over my journal?”

“There’s nothing inherently sexual about the human form,” he said. “Only our perception of it.”

“Whatever. Keep your gross lady drawings out of my safe place.” June tore the page out and handed it to him. He folded it up and put it in his pocket.

Gregg left shortly after that, presumably to steal motorcycles and murder people on them or something.

Jerry was a weed dealer, which seemed to be the most interesting thing about him. His hair was long and greasy, so he frequently wore it in a ponytail. He made the Marvin’s staff make him a “special drink”.

“What’s Jerry’s ‘special drink’?” I asked June.

“It’s a mocha with like, five times the sugar and chocolate sauce. And an extra espresso shot, I think.”

“Jesus. Why does he need that?”

“He doesn’t. No one does. I think it sobers him up, though. It probably keeps him awake for fifteen hours.”

Later on, I naïvely asked June, “Could I get a special drink?”

June responded, “Jerry only gets that because he sells to Marvin and all of Marvin’s employees. Don’t push your luck.”

The evening went on, and Jerry had somehow began introducing his music taste.

“I’m into pretty much whatever, unless it’s reggae or country. Anything hardcore’s good. Black metal, death metal, crossover, thrash, it’s all good with me. Right now I’m mostly listening to the Sex Pistols again since it’s been a couple months. How about you, Luke?”

“Oh, I like, I dunno. I’m into whatever, like you said.” My exposure to music at that point had been limited to the couple of Johnny Cash tapes that my dad played in the car. I sang along to them with him sometimes.

Jerry seemed annoyed. “What about you, Ms. June?”

“J-pop, mostly.”

“Oh, I haven’t heard of them. Their, uh, new cassingle is supposed to be good, right?”

June suppressed a giggle. “Sure.”

“Yeah, you should get that over to me. I’ll give it a listen.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Well, I could probably spare an eighth for you if you do.” Jerry got up, “It’s been fun, but I’ll see you dudes later. I have to actually work for a living.”

After he left, June said, “We should get jobs, huh. I don’t want to have to give up my Plastic Love tape for an eighth of Jerry’s bunk-ass weed.”

“Where do you get your money?” I asked. June paid for me every time we came here– I had never once questioned it.

“I just steal from my parents,” she said casually. “They’re loaded, so they don’t even notice.”

“Really? What do they do?”

“My mom’s like…a therapist, and my dad’s a copyright lawyer. It’s whatever.”

“Huh.”

“Well, you should get a job at least. I’m sick of paying for you.”

A little embarrassed, I began looking for part-time work. An ice cream shop a few blocks from my house hired me, and I worked there every weekend. I ended up quitting after six weeks, but it gave me enough money to start buying my own cappuccinos at Marvin’s–and enough to buy myself a typewriter.

There was an old Underwood I had been eyeing in the window of the antique shop since we moved to Sequoia. I spent half my last paycheck on it and the necessary ink ribbons, and proudly hauled it into Marvin’s to show June.

“Why?” she immediately asked.

“It’s a typewriter! It’s how Kerouac wrote.”

“Couldn’t you have at least gotten an electric one? Or you could have gotten a computer.”

“You’re missing the point,” I said. “Typewriters are cool.”

“Whatever, man,” June sighed, “Maybe Paul will like it.”

“Paul will _love it_ ,” I assured her.

“I bet you can get him to suck your dick if you just let him feel the keys or whatever.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I snapped.

 

“So,” my therapist said, “June, Gregg, Paul Walker, Hero, Jerry. These seem to be the main figures in your memories besides Lake.”

“Yeah, I’d say that’s right.”

“And these were your closest friends in high school?”

“Yep.”

“At least until…”

“Senior year,” I interrupted him.

“Right. How many of these people are you still in contact with now?”

“Zero.”

“Really?” He pressed. “You’re telling me you haven’t had even the slightest interaction with any of your high school friends?”

“Completely. I mean, well,” I thought, “June sent me a Christmas card last year.”

“Did she? What did it say?” He was excited.

“I don’t remember. Just, ‘merry christmas’, I guess.”

My therapist sighed. “That was nice of her. Did you make any attempt to get in touch with her after that?”

“No,” I said.

 

I had lied twice. I did remember what the Christmas card said. It read,

“Luke,

I hope you are doing well. I’ve been trying to get in contact with you– I ended up called your dad, and he told me what had happened with the hospital and you getting fired and everything. I was really sorry to hear about all of that. I finally got your Brooklyn address, though.

I know it’s weird for me to contact you after all this time, but I’m really worried about you. I hope you can forgive me; with everything that was happening between you and Gregg and Lake I guess I didn’t want to upset anyone by talking to you. You remember how it was in high school. It was all just a big mess. I’m still really sorry though–I feel like I abandoned you.

If you ever need someone to talk to, or a place to stay, you know you can call me. (577) 632-1048. Seriously, anytime, for anything. There’s a couch waiting for you here in Boston whenever you need it.

I guess I don’t really know how much you’ve kept track of me. Maybe you’ve seen Facebook or whatever. I have a daughter now. We named her Snow. She just turned two, this October. She’s a little miracle. She speaks her own little language.

When I was pregnant, I spent so much time just being angry and upset and confused, and not knowing if I wanted to get an abortion or not, and wondering if this would ruin my chances in med school. I still can’t believe I decided to keep her, but I’m so glad I did.

Leaving med school, moving in with Jessica, it was all a whirlwind, but I’m so happy I did it. I wake up every morning with Snow resting in my arms and I feel just so peaceful and overwhelmed with happiness. And I hear Jessica downstairs, making breakfast for both of us before she leaves for work, and I just feel so happy I want to cry, and I hug Snow in my arms as tight as I can.”

I had already started to cry reading this.

“I’m realizing as I write this that this is the first chance I’ve had to actually write down how I feel. I guess I forgot how important that was. 

Well, I have no idea how you’ll react to any of this. It’s probably insane that I’m telling all of this to you, but, well. That’s how it shakes out sometimes. I really do hope you’re doing okay.  And call me, or write me back, or something. Really.

Sincerely,

June Carter-Evans”

She had attached in the envelope a photograph of her and her wife Jessica cradling baby Snow in their arms. “Merry Christmas” was printed around it.

I was weeping by the time I was done with the letter. My hands were shaking from scotch, or not enough scotch, and I tried to pull out my phone with tears still streaming down my face, and started to dial June’s number. Five… seven… seven…

I stopped dialing when I realized what I was doing. All June felt for me was pity and concern, and I was about to interrupt her Christmas evening with the pathetic sound of a man crying desperately for attention. I threw my phone to the other side of the apartment.

 

“I just think it’s unusual,” his therapist continued, “that you haven’t tried to get back in touch with anyone from your high school days. I understand you must have felt betrayed by them, in some way, but you must also have had a great deal of good memories with them as well.”

“I do,” I admitted.

“So, would you consider reaching out to one of your old friends?”

“I just… I don’t think that would help so much, Doc. I mean, isn’t this about getting me out of my, um, obsession with the past?”

“This could be a valuable method of doing so. By reconnecting with these people, maybe you can start to understand them more as real people in the present and less as the past versions of them that only exist in your memories.”

“I don’t, uh, I just really don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

“Okay,” my therapist said. “But keep thinking about it, okay?”

 

Shortly after my stint in the hospital, I came out to Brooklyn. If I was going to die anytime soon, it should at least be in my favorite city.

I managed to find acting work surprisingly quickly, with a recommendation from my old company leader landing me a surprisingly prominent role in an off-Broadway run of Hamlet. I was given the part of Rosencrantz, thanks to my brief experience earlier in improv comedy. The pay from the theater could just about cover rent with my dad’s help, so I began balancing rehearsals with a part-time job at Sears.

This quick series of events earned me the trust of my out-patient program supervisor, and he permitted me to see only a weekly regular therapist instead of the mandatory sessions every other day with the out-patient group. He recommended me one in Brooklyn, who I began seeing immediately.

Since leaving the hospital, I was more prone to bouts of nostalgia than ever. Every time I dreamt, I would be revisited by some memory, either from elementary school or middle or high school. They frequently revolved around Lake, confirming my fears that I hadn’t really moved on from her. Sometimes, they seemed hauntingly real, as if they were so detailed that I was actually living them. Other times, the memories blended into nightmares–versions of Lake or June or Gregg would suddenly manifest from the memories and begin speaking to me in scenes I was sure hadn’t happened.

I suppose this is what my therapist meant when he claimed my memories were becoming distorted. But I think his main concern with my recollections being too pastoral and fantasy-like was unavoidable. That was simply the truth–childhood memories naturally bear an innocence that later life betrays. In my case, the fact that my life went downhill quickly after high school only sharpens the contrast between all that “rose-colored” happiness and the monotony of regular, lonely existence.

 

At some point, for some reason, June, Lake and I were dragged to one of Gregg and Paul Walker’s band rehearsals. June told me on the van ride there that Gregg wanted to feel like he had groupies. Gregg denied this out of hand.

They arrived at Gregg’s dad’s house, and parked in front of the garage. The two other members of the band were already there, with serious looks on their faces. They were clearly much older and much more rock & roll. One held a bass, the other sat behind a drumkit.

“Hey, hey, everybody,” Gregg said as they walked in, “Why the stone faces?”

“We’ve been waiting for twenty minutes, Gregg,” the drummer bellowed, in a deep voice.

“It’s all good, man, we’ll get going. Hey, me and Paul brought some friends with us.”

Paul introduced them. “This is Lake, June, and Luke. Lake, June, Luke, meet Desmond and Darryl.”

I waved, not sure which one was which.

“Y’all can just chill, we’re gonna get set up,” Gregg instructed. I sat down awkwardly on one of the couches in the garage, and Lake and June sat next to me. I had no idea what I was doing there.

Gregg picked up and started tuning a guitar. “What does Paul do?” I asked him.

“He does keys.” Sure enough, Paul Walker was setting up a Yamaha keyboard next to the drummer.

“So you sing and play lead guitar?”

“You got to, man. Every band needs a leader.”

I didn’t question this proposal.

Eventually, they started playing. They got about halfway through a song when Gregg made them stop because the drummer was off-beat. At that point, June stood up and suggested that since they still sucked, her, Lake, and I would go outside. I followed agreeably as she led us out of the garage door out into the snow.

It was the dead of winter, and the sun was setting around us. I lied down in the snow. It felt relaxing. Lake was next to me, playing with a twig or something. In front of us, June was kicking around snow.

I had already spent three months in high school at that point. I realized I had spent nearly every minute of my time with June, and I rarely saw Lake anymore. I looked at Lake for a while while lying down. I felt so stupid.

I sat up. “Hey,” I said.

“Hi,” she said back, still playing with the twig.

“Do you want to go to the winter dance with me?”

“Oh. Sure? Yes,” she decided.

“Nice,” I said back.

“Um, cool,” she said, starting to blush. She put her hand out a little bit. We high-fived.

June had stopped in front of us. She burst out into laughter.

“Oh my fucking god,” she wheezed. She fell to the ground.

“Junie…” Lake whispered disapprovingly.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” June said, “You guys are fucking adorable.”

Nervously, I scooted closer to Lake. We sat in the snow together and watched June laugh and admire us.

 

“Why don’t you, just for my own understanding, go over everything that happened between you and this girl Lake?” My therapist asked me in one of our first sessions. We were still meeting on the third floor of the general hospital then.

“I see that she pops up quite a bit in the notes I was sent from the hospital, and a lot of your memory problems seem to be tied up in your relationship to her.”

I nodded. “Basically, we were best friends for a while. I fell in love with her in high school, and tried to get closer to her too quickly. Things fell apart, and she broke up with me.”

“And that was one of the first catalysts for your depression?”

“Sort of. We remained friends after that, but it was always awkward. A lot of things in my life started to go wrong at that time. I began failing in school, not eating. And then, around that time, my mom passed away.”

“Really? For some reason, that was nowhere in the notes.”

“I guess I wasn’t trying to give too much away,” I explained. “After that, I sort of started to obsess over Lake, I guess you could say. I thought, maybe, she still had feelings for me, or something. I don’t know.”

“Around that time,” I continued, “she started dating our friend Gregg. And, I sort of directed everything else that was going on in my life at them.”

“I sent Lake this big declaration of love, telling her I wanted to be with her and that I didn’t want to live without her and all this stuff. It probably really scared her. I try not to think about it.”

“Then, I got in this fight with Gregg. I don’t really remember how it started. We just saw each other in the hallway and I sort of came at him. I think I was drunk. He put me out of commission. He was one of my best friends. He really, actually cared about me, in a way that almost no one else ever did. He actually, like, took me to the school nurse after he had beat me up and made sure I was okay.”

“By that point, I was pretty much done with all of my high school friends. They didn’t even want to look at me. Going to school was miserable. Every now and then, my friend June tried to talk to me out of pity, but I didn’t have anything to say to her. I felt betrayed.”

My therapist was busy writing this all down.

“This all happened,” he said, “in your senior year of high school?”

“Oh, not really. The first breakup stuff happened in freshman year. Then everything just sort of bubbled under the surface through sophomore year, and then in junior year was when I lost it. Actually,” I said, “I remember, the summer after senior year, Gregg invited me to this like, reunion thing that I ended up going to. We sort of just pretended like everything was normal then, and all my old friends were there, too. Lake was there. She must have been so uncomfortable, but she didn’t show it at all.”

“It was so nice, because we were just gathered around sharing all these memories. I felt like everything was back to normal for me. Like I would go to school again when it started in a week and just fit back into place with everyone. That didn’t happen, obviously.”

“So,” my therapist inferred, “Your memory problems, and your dreams, and later the hallucinations–they started in senior year.”

“That’s right.”

“You became obsessed with reliving moments of your past–moments you felt you were truly happy in. Whether they were from your recent time spent with your ex-friends, or from deeper in your childhood.”

“I–yes.”

“Judging by the reports from the hospital, these became less and less like daydreams and more and more like the symptoms of someone suffering from PTSD.”

“I don’t know about that…”

“It’s not unusual,” he assured me. “Recollection became your source of happiness, and so you became addicted to it. The more addicted you were, and the more important these memories were to you, the more vivid these memories became.”

“Yes.”

“And when you were out of high school, working in theater,” he went on, “that was when the hallucinations began.”

“Yes.”

“You felt as though you had to spend your days reliving these memories,” he stressed, “as they were your sole source of happiness.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And so you became trapped in this world you created, of your own memories. You were, in other words, a phantom, living an imagined life.”

“I…”

“And that’s when you were admitted to the hospital.”

“Yes.” I had started tearing up.

My therapist offered me a box of tissues. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose into it.

“Sorry,” I said, “I don’t know…”

He shook his head, as if to say, “don’t worry”.

“Luke,” he said to me, “I have to say, I don’t think things are as bad as they seem for you.”

I was silent.

“If you continue with your current commitments, to the theater production you’re working on and at your job,” he said, “I believe I can help you understand that your memories aren’t as important as they seem.”

“If we work together, and you’re honest with me,” he said, “I think your addiction will be cured in no time.” He smiled warmly.

 

I was nineteen the first time I went to an AA meeting. I stumbled into the basement still drunk.

Maybe it was my experience in high school theater, or maybe I was just dying to have someone listen to what I had to say, but I didn’t hesitate to take the stand.

I remember my eyes being wet as I talked. Maybe I was crying.

“I don’t drink to forget,” I joked, “I really just want to remember.”

“I want to remember just one time when I was happy. And when I’m drunk, I almost always do.”

“There’s this one memory I keep coming back to–from high school. My first year of high school. I always think about this story, whenever I get really drunk.”

“It’s–I had just bought this big typewriter. I used to love writing, like, stories and stuff, when I was a kid, so I spent like eighty dollars on this dumb old typewriter, so I could write like the greats.”

“And, so, I invited my friend Paul Victor–er…”

I struggled. I looked out at my audience of mainly older trucker types. They weren’t really following my story. I felt like I was starting to cry.

“His name was Paul Winner, Winter…Winters…”

“Paul Walker! His name was Paul Walker, I invited Paul Walker to my room to show him my typewriter.”

“And he loved it. This guy was a real, like, artist type, so he couldn’t wait to get his hands on it. He typed out a poem as soon as he saw it. I still have that poem in my room somewhere. It was a haiku.”

“He told me he really liked spending time with me, and that I ought to get out of my shell more often. He invited me to try out with him at the next, uh, thing… Try out for the spring play. Audition for the school play.”

“He said I seemed like I had a real talent for acting.”

“And, um… that was it. That’s the whole story.”

Someone clapped, slowly, from the back row.

“I, um…”

The reverend came up behind me and patted me on the back.

“Thank you, Luke. You can sit down now,” he said.

I didn’t come back to AA again for a while.

 


End file.
